


The Other Man

by Random_ag



Category: (it can be read as either a fanfiction or a standalone piece), Bendy and the Ink Machine, Original Work
Genre: Autistic Character, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Curiosity, LGBTQ Character, i sure dont, probably. maybe. who knows, they find Friendship, two children go look for a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 17,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Of a man with only eyes, what he left, and the kids who look at him.





	1. Chapter 1

Charlie has to look very, very much up to actually be able to meet his gaze. His neck almost strains as he tries to take him all in.

The Man With The Eyes stares, and Charlie stares back.

He does not blink, the child notices. Nor does he move an inch in any way, maybe not even to breathe. Charlie becomes suddenly concious that his chest does rise when he inhales; the chest of the Man With The Eyes doesn’t seem to do that, but it could just be because of his very big clothes and how they cover him, and how he hunches forward.

The body is also weird. It looks very blue, to be honest - and he knows it’s not black because there’s a small but clear difference between a really dark blue and black, and he just loves colors and shapes and art as a whole because he wants to be like his uncle one day, so he knows how to tell them apart, and this color is definitely blue, which is weird. He never heard of people with blue skin like this. There were people with dark or grey skin, but never blue.

The Man With The Eyes just kind of looks at him. He doesn’t have something someone would call a face. Sure, there’s eyes and hair and dots all over, but that’s about it.

“Charlie, darling, are you ready?”

Charlie’s attention is caught by an old man leaning on the doorframe.

“Your dad’s here.”

“I’m coming, Uncle Joey.”

He maneuvers his wheelchair away, and his eyes fall on a peculiar little detail: the Man With The Eyes doesn’t touch the ground with his feet.

When he turns to wave goodbye to his beloved uncle, he also waves at the dark blue figure wearing massive clothes sort of hovering just behind Joey.

The Man With The Eyes waits a second and waves back.

“There was a man at Uncle Joey’s today.”

“A man, you say?”

“Yeah, very tall and blue all over.”

“Well, that’s weird.”

“Right? And there were only his eyes on his face, and a bunch of dots.”

“And what did he do?”

“Just sorta looked at me.”

“Hm.”

“He was kinda like a ghost.”

“He was?”

“Hm-hm. He didn’t touch the gorund.”

“Oh, definitely sounds ghost-y. Do you think he was angry?”

“No, I don’t think. He waved at me when we left.”

“Good. Angry ghosts are terrible.”

“Why?”

“Because they can do lots of awful things to you, and you can’t stop them.”

“In any way?”

“In any way.”

“… Well, I think he was a nice ghost.”

“I think so too.”

The next time Malcolm brings him over, Charlie waits and waits and looks around carefully, but the Man With The Eyes is nowhere to be found.


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s a ghost here.”

The child keeps on coloring.

“It’s true, I saw it.”

Charlie looks back to check on his uncle. He’s in the kitchen, he can see his hand moving from behind the counter. The blonde woman is leaning on it and listening to her old friend. They speak in hushed voices - maybe not to disturb the kids.

“I called him the Man With The Eyes, ‘cos he only has eyes on his face.”

The child is younger than him. He doesn’t enjoy speaking, it seems. He has a pendant that looks like the head of a bird and an unpronounceable name.

“And he’s all dark blue all over. Not his clothes, but the rest is all dark blue.”

“Ah.”

It’s not really surprised; it’s more a tone of finally finding something you’re familiar within a pool of words you don’t know.

“The Other.”

“Hm?”

“The Other.”

“Who’s the Other?”

“The ghost.”

“The one I saw?”

“Hm.”

“So you know him?”

“I dream him.”

Charlie’s eyes glimmer with curiousity. Ghosts can be dreamt? He had no idea that was a possibility. It must be amazing, to dream of ghosts. Then he stops a secod to think like his dad does when he’s helping people in court, and he finds an inconsistency in the testimony.

“Well, I’ve never dreamt him. Even though I waved at him and he waved back.”

“Ma and Pa don’t dream him either. It’s only me.”

“It’s not fair! I wanna dream him too!”

The child flinches - oops, he forgot. Charlie apologizes and lowers his voice again so they can speak without anyone’s ears hurting.

“I wanna ask him what happened to him.”

“ ’s rude.”

“You think?”

“You don’ ask ghosts why they’re ghosts.”

“Why, though? I wanna know.”

“Maybe it was really bad an’ they don’ wanna tell.”

“Maybe it wasn’t.”

“ ’s rude. Pa said so.”

“Your dad talks to ghosts?”

“No, but he says ’s rude.”

“But I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“ ‘s rude.”

Charlie looks at the adults in the kitchen again. The woman - big, short, looks very tired - has her head on her hand and her eyes closed like she’s sleeping. Uncle Joey is Uncle Joey, in bathrobe and pijamas. They’re not speaking now.

When he turns he finds the child has his gaze set on the kitchen, too, but not on the people. His little cinnamon hands are gripping onto the pencil and paper where he’s been focused this whole time. Charlie’s eyes fall on the drawing: it looks a lot like the Man With The Eyes.

The small freckled fingers grab his wrist and yank him gently until he’s staring at the door at the end of the kitchen as well.

The fingers holding it slightly ajar are so dark they seem pitch black, and so does the head that peeks from behind it and the hair that surrounds it similar to a halo of void. On the otherwise blank face, the eyes (one orange, one blue, in the same colors that Thaische has behind his eyelids but reflected by a mirror) burn their gaze into those of the children.

The door closes without a sound.

The playdate ends when the woman says it’s time to go home, even though it’s still early, because they live pretty far from Joey’s house. Thaische doesn’t take the drawing with him; despite putting it in a drawer of his bedside table, Charlie still doesn’t dream the ghost.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Thaische who asks to come over again.

His parents are happy about it, because he doesn’t like his peers much (or people in general, for that matter) and they’re glad he finally made a friend.

Charlie is happy about it, because he is said friend.

They spend most of their playdate drawing and waiting under Uncle Joey’s careful eyes. Uncle Joey says looking at them having fun drawing makes him feel very happy. It reminds him of when he was younger and how he would doodle the hours away with his friend, Uncle Henry, barely noticing the passing of time while they scribbled and sketched funny little stories… He’d love to go back to those times, but, oh well. Too late now. He’s got a lovely nephew now, and he’s very calm. Very, very calm.

Charlie and Thaische stand in front of the door in the kitchen only once they’re sure Uncle Joey is sleeping soundly.

“What do you think is in there?”

“Dunno.”

Turns out, once they do open the door, that there’s nothing in there. Nothing that can be seen, at least, because it’s all completely covered in black.

Thaische pokes the endless mass with his cane: it hits what seems to be a pavement. So there’s a place to walk on, at least.

“You should stay behind me.”

“Why?”

“You’re very small, and I’m bigger and older than you. If there’s monsters, I’m gonna beat them up better. So you should stay behind me.”

Charlie bites his upper lip when he’s reminded of the cane by the cinnamon finger pointing at it. He’s thinking. It would hurt more than his fists, and it could find holes in the floor. Maybe he should ask if he can take it. But it is Thaische’s, and maybe it would be unpolite. So…

“What if you sit on my knees?”

“Hm?”

“What if you sit on my knees, I said.” he repeats, and pats them: “If you sit here, we can fight the monsters together. If they start screaming to hurt you I’ll cover your ears, so you’ll be fine and you can keep hitting them until they die. That’s a good idea, right?”

It is.

They venture into the pitch black dark, Thaische safely tucked on Charlie’s lap, the wheelchair creaking ever so softly as they proceede. The light from Uncle Joey’s kitchen grows dimmer and dimmer, and when Charlie turns for the first time, the door is so far away that it’s barely more than a little rectangle.

The second time he turns, after wheeling for what felt like hundreds of minutes, the door is gone.

Vanished.

Eaten whole by the black.

Thaische looks to his left, into nothing.

“Someone’s singin’.”

“I can’t ear anything.”

“Someone’s singin’.”

He does have strong ears.

The wheelchair creaks and follows the direction where Thaische’s head points, and neither speak for a long time. The cane drags lazily across the ground. There’s no monsters, in the end.

Or maybe there will be soon? Oh, wait.

In the end, yes, he can hear it.

There is singing.

Humming, to be truthful.

It takes a bit more wheeling before they see someone sitting on the ground. Well, not really, since the person is crouching on tip of their toes. But from afar it looks like they’re sitting.

It might be because of the very big clothes, too.

The person is humming and their thin, thin hands rasp the ground softly, slowly, without even leaving marks. Their hair is long, crazy and tangled everywhere with oily knots.

They should probably take a bath. And wash their clothes. They don’t smell, but they surely look like they do.

Charlie wheels next to their side but doesn’t look at them.

Thaische does.

It’s weird, Charlie thinks. Thaische never looks at anybody in the eyes.

But he’s doing that, now.

And he’s not.

That’s weird.

His eyelids are tingling, he notices. He closes them to rub the sand away.

Uncle Joey wakes with a bit of a startle; he didn’t plan to fall asleep while watching over the kids, he really didn’t. How long did he rest? Maybe minutes. He looks at the clock: half an hour. Could have been worse. But children can do lots in thirty minutes, can’t they now. The house doesn’t look demolished and the furniture is unscathed. That’s a start.

Charlie’s head hungs low. He naps soundly.

But Thaische’s eyes are very open, and wide.

They stare at his latest drawing - a deep blue figure crouching, notes around it signaling it’s singing.

They are still.

Uncle Joey looks at them below the wild chestnut hair and he stops breathing for a second.

They remind him of somebody else.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s chilly outside, and Charlie has no idea where he’s going.

He was at the park with Dad, and now he’s leaving.

Without Dad.

Thaische is pushing him away.

Thaische doesn’t answer questions a lot. He likes keeping quiet and not speaking a lot, just looking around without clearing at what or who he’s looking. And that’s ok! But Charlie would really like to know what’s going on and where they’re going, because he’s starting to worry, and because Dad will get very scared if he doesn’t see him, because whenever Dad doesn’t see Charlie he thinks Mom broke the promise with the police to never come close to either of them again and took him away to fix him, and it’s a very scary thought for both Charlie and Dad.

But Thaische doesn’t answer at all.

Actually, he hasn’t spoken at all.

He just came out of nowhere, grabbed Charlie’s chair by the handles, and pushed him out of the park, far away, without saying anything to anyone.

The more Charlie asks, the less Thaische answers.

Oh!

That’s grass.

Is he taking him to another park?

No, wait.

It’s not a park.

It looks a bit like a park, but doesn’t feel like a park.

There’s no children, and the adults are few. The trees are few too. They’re tall and weird. They look like they’re trying very hard to be pinecones.

Ciperus, cipremes, cip, cip… Cip-something-esses, that’s what they are.

They’re just on the side. None of them is planted around the field. And there’s no benches, either. How are people supposed to sit? Maybe on the rocks, but nobody does that. They just stay in front of them and cry sometimes. They clean them and put flowers and look at them, and that’s all.

Oh.

Oh, they’re not rocks.

Thaische pushes him away from the bigger part of the field. He’s pointing to a corner far from everything else, with tall grass that nobody cares to cut.

There are one, two, three… Eight stones. Nine. One is bigger than the others.

There’s flowers on it.

At least Charlie thinks they are. They surely were, but not anymore. They’re mushed up and melted like mud.

That’s where he stops.

Thaische faces him and points to the stone.

To the letters.

He doesn’t say anything.

And then he starts breathing weird, with lots of huffs and puffs, and then he shuts his eyes and shows his teeth and does this long weird sound and tears fall down his cheeks and he starts crying.

Charlie has never seen him cry before.

All he can think of is that his mouth must be hurting.

He’s clenching his jaw like mad.

Thaische’s dad is thin, tall, and dark.

He looks nothing like Thaische, or Thaische’s mom. Thaische’s parents look nothing like each other nor Thaische himself. It’s like a family of strangers.

Charlie doesn’t remember how they went back home - he only knows there was a bubblegum, and a hug, and wheeling back to the entrance, and Dad, and then a ride while Thaische cries in his arms, and then Dad is calling someone who’s really worried and sobbing and thanking him, and then there’s Thaische’s dad.

He’s never seen someone like that up close.

He looks like magic. Like he’s made of the same thing that makes the walls in a fairy’s palace. The light shines weirdly on him and makes him glow.

He crouches down to get Thaische out of Charlie’s hug. He looks so sweet.

“I gave him a bubblegum so he didn’t hurt his teeth.”

He looks up to the boy. There’s gold in his eyes.

“His teeth?”

“He was smashing them together very hard and I got worried so I gave him a bubblegum so they don’t break.”

That is a soft smile, the one Charlie gets.

“It was very nice of you. Thank you.”

It makes Charlie blush.

Thaische curls into his dad’s arms and goes away, still crying. Later, the phone rings again. It’s him. He wants to speak with Charlie.

“Hello?”

“Hello. I’m Thaische’s dad. Remember?”

“Yes! You look very pretty.”

“Oh. Oh, thank you!”

He smiles and giggles a little bit.

“Can I ask you something? About today.”

“Yes?”

“Where did you and Thaische go?”

“Hm… To the cem't’ry. I think. I think it was the cem’t’ry, yes.”

“Oh.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, no. You went to the corner, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Is it bad?”

“No, it’s not bad.”

“But he was crying.”

“It’s not bad. Everybody needs to cry sometimes.”

“Why was he crying?”

There’s a bit of pause. Hello?, he should say, but he doesn’t wanna disturb.

“He’s a little shaken, is all.”

“Why?”

“I think he realized his brother is there.”

“There where?”

“In the corner.”

Thaische never told him about having brothers. Then again, he never told him anything about himself, apart from the animal skulls. He likes the animal skulls. That’s how much he told him. But about brothers? Never.

It takes a little, but he gets it.

“So that’s why he was crying?”

“I think so.”

“… Well, I think I would cry too.”

He can hear him nod, and smile sadly.

“I think I would, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

Tick. Tack.

Tick. Tack.

Tick. Tack.

“Do you know Thaische’s brother?”

The Man With The Eyes keeps his back to him as he crouches on the floor. His long spindly fingers tap rhythmically on the pavement, following the clock’s beat.

Tip. Tap.

Tip. Tap.

Tip. Tap.

“Thaische is the other boy.”

The Man With The Eyes scrapes at the ground quietly.

Scrap scrap.

Tick. Tack.

Tip. Tap.

“He’s very sad about his brother.”

Tip. Scrap.

Scrap tack.

Tick. Tap.

“Maybe you could see him and tell him his little brother is sad. So he can go say hi to him and make him happy.”

Scrap scrap scrap scrap scrap.

Tick. Tack.

Tip Tick. Tack Tap.

Tip. Tap.

Scrap scrap scrap.

“If it’s ok to ask… What happened to you?”

The Man With The Eyes stops for a second. Charlie watches as the long bony fingers shift the tangled mess of hair away: the neck has an irregular line running across it, barely darker than the rest of his skin.

“Does it still hurt?”

There is a shake of a dark blue head.

“That’s very good then.”

Tick. Tack,

Tick. Tack.

Tick.

Tack.

This. Doesn’t look like Uncle Joey’s livingroom.

Or his own bedroom.

Or a house.

This looks like… Some kind of cave.

Charlie turns, and finds himself sorrounded by flowers. Some are taller than him; some are big and full of good smells; some are too small to be moved by the air that comes around every now and then.

Sitting not too far away from him, the Man With The Eyes has a bird perched on his shoulder.

The bird’s face is gone: there’s just bones.

Thaische would love it.

Bicolored eyes shift at Charlie’s feet, where another skull runs past, attached to the body of a small rabbit, and some kind of furry tube sniffs curiously at the boy with its empty nasal passages. They stare up at him and tilt with the deep blue head on which they sit.

Charlie looks around some more. He pets the furry tube. It kind of smells like potatoes and dirt, which is how dirty potatoes usually smell like. To his right, on what he guesses is a small pond, because the flowers cover a lot of his vision, a crocodile enjoys a nice bath with a good dozen lizards running or sitting on its back and what seems like an otter floating by it.

“Is this place yours?”

The Man With The Eyes nods as he scratches a racoon behind the ears.

It is kind of weird how the skulls have no fur or skin or eyes or anything, but they do have ears. Charlie can spot another pair a little behind him, with some black fur on top of them. They also appear to have tongues, since that one looks like it’s licking its paws.

He wishes Thaische was there.

Thaische knows how to tell skulls apart.

“It’s very pretty.”

That one is a deer, he’s sure of it.

It doesn’t have horns, so it’s a lady deer. She’s sitting very nicely far away from everything, on some kind of small bump - a little hill, maybe, that’s filled of those tiny white flowers you see in winter, where they poke holes in the snow. She sits there calm and pretty and elegant and she looks like she’s enjoying the light.

(There’s light, but no way to tell where it’s coming from. The cave has a big roof that covers all of it, so it can’t come from the sun. But it still feels very sunny.

Very warm.)

A bunch of thin fingers hands him some flowers.

The orange ones look like they could be lilies, while the blue ones are more like if someone tried to glue a lot of petals to make a ball, and only later realized, huh, petals aren’t good for making balls.

He likes them lots.

They kind of remind hm of Thaische’s eyes, these colors. Thaische has lovely eyes, Charlie thinks as he looks up to meet the ghost’s and offer him a smile. There is no smile back, but that’s probably because the Man With The Eyes has such a dark blue face that nothing can be seen on it.

Except for the eyes, of course.

It’s like his skin and hair eats the light around him instead of reflecting it.

Or is he the one who gets eaten?

The Man With The Eyes yawns. His mouth stretches wide enough to shut his eyes and his teeth peek from what are probably his lips: they are of a shiny bone white, and two are very pointy.

He stretches his back, and arms, and legs, like a cat who’s mom accidentally made too long. His neck crackles as he turns it around.

It’s weird seeing him drag himself to a purple spot to lay down.

Charlie crawls after him.

(His movements feel strangely easy, fluid, normal).

There is a fox, on the odorous purple.

It wags its tail as the Man With The Eyes pets it.

The Man With The Eyes seems tired.

He curls up on the odorous purple, and hides his face in the fox’s belly.

There’s a soft wind that’s stirring the flowers.

Charlie

“Get up, baby boy. School time.”

Tick. Tack.

Tick. Tack.

Tick. Tack.

Charlie taps his fingers on his school desk in unison with the clock.


	6. Chapter 6

Thaische howls softly.

The Ram caresses his face and dries his tears as they spill.

This feels so weird. So weird.

He can’t remember ever crying and now that he does it feels so weird.

So terribly weird.

He can’t place what’s going on, what is happening - he’s crying, but he doesn’t know why.

Mamma doesn’t cry when she’s sad. She spills ivy from her face, as she says, and she doesn’t cry.

Dad doesn’t cry when he’s sad. He curls into a ball and stops talking for a while, or he takes a bath.

They look like they’re crying but they’re not.

Crying, you do when you’re sad, yes?

But they don’t cry when they’re sad.

They look like they do, but they do other things.

What else do you cry for?

Thaische doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember ever crying for any reason and now he doesn’t know what is making him cry.

It feels so weird.

Arms around him.

He howls a little bit more, a little bit louder.

Cry.

He curls into the dark figure holding him and howls some more.

Cry. Feels good.

“No.”

After you cry. Feels a little good.

“ ‘s weird.”

It is.

“Don’ like it.”

It’s fine.

He cries until his mouth is all wet and salty. It tastes nice.

It still feels so weird.

The Other doesn’t speak. He just rubs his back gently, not hushing him, not moving, not doing anything. The hand draws wide circles with the wide palm and it never slows down or goes faster.

It’s nice.

It’s nice enough that he stops crying, after a while.

Good?

“Hm.”

Good.

“Hm.”

Voices from far away. They’d be way too loud if they were closer.

“He’ll be safe here, right?”

“Malcolm, I understand yer worry but she’s got the strength of a pair o’ earthworms, if she showed up I’d just punch her and she’d die.”

Hm. He’s got an idea of who might be here.

Need to go?

“Soon.”

I see.

The palm still rubs his back.

“He’s in his room.”

A soft question.

“He’s jus’ laying down. Too many noises at school.”

‘ove ‘u.

“Hm?”

I love you.

He doesn’t answer. He just breathes in.

Thaische opens his eyes in his dim bedroom. His back is pressed to the mattress; he stares wordlessly to the ceiling. It looks very blue.

“Pst.”

He doesn’t turn his head.

“I made a thing for you.”

Charlie very carefully lays a sheet of paper on his chest, so he can pick it up when he wants.

“I dreamt them and I thought they kinda looked like your eyes.”

Thaische holds it above his eyes, to see it a little better.

“Do you like them?”

His arms shoot up and stiffen. Charlie smiles wide.

They draw a lot of flowers on their playdate, and Niamh is surprised to see how good they are; when she tries making a rose, it looks like an angry scribble. They snicker about it a little.

On the wall, above Thaische’s headpost, is stuck a picture of a bouquet of orange lilies and blue peonies.

They really do look like his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

“Uncle Joey?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Did you know there’s a ghost here?”

A slight stumble.

“A ghost?”

Charlie nods.

“Ah… Well, maybe. I think there could have been, maybe…”

“It’s here.”

“How do you know?”

“I see it.”

It’s spoken so very simply. So easily. As matter of fact.

“Do you, now?”

“Yeah! And Thaische too.”

Thaische.

“He’s really tall and blue. I call him the Man With The Eyes ‘cos he’s only got eyes on his face.”

Eyes?

“Thaische says he dreams him. I think I dreamt him too last week, you know?”

Dreamt him.

Uncle Joey slides off his crutch and almost falls on the floor. His hand claws feverish at the armchair as he presses his whole weight on his prothesis. He is shaking - his skin got paler than usual in less than a minute.

His eyes are wide and scared.

“Did it… Did he hurt you? Did he want to…?”

Charlie’s eyes are wide and scared too.

“Charlie, Charlie, this is very important, did he try to hurt you? Did, did he tell you something, showed you something…?”

He looks about to cry.

Charlie shakes his head. His voice is very feeble, very freightened. The sound of the crutch falling must have reminded him of something. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s bad, and it scares him a lot.

“He gave me flowers once… And waved at me…”

“Waved how?”

“To say bye… When I was going home…”

Uncle Joey stills. He doesn’t breathe for a while.

Then he deflates with a sigh that feels like relief, and lets himself fall on the armchair gently. His nephew wheels closer immediately; he looks worried. His eyes are ever so slightly dimmer with fear.

“Is it bad, Uncle Joey? That I see him?”

“No, no, it’s not… If he doesn’t hurt you, it’s not bad, it’s just a little strange - I’m sorry for scaring you. I should have kept calm. I’m sorry, dear, I really am.”

“But if you got scared then it’s bad, right?”

“No, no - your uncle is an old man, Charlie, he thinks too much and gets too worried about silly things in his head. Everything is alright. Promised.”

Small fingers curl around his trembling fist and Joey wants to melt into a river’s outfall and just start crying in the lap of a nine year old who . He puts his free palm on Charlie’s, squeezing it gently to reassure him. Everything is alright, he repeats the whole evening, but Charlie doesn’t calm down. He holds his nephew close to his heart after dinner to give him so peace.

He carries Charlie to bed once he finally falls asleep.

(Malcolm is busy. Malcolm is always busy. Poor man.)

He doesn’t feel ready to sleep yet.

So he sits. Perfectly still.

“I thought you were done.”

His eyes are open wide, glued to the floor.

“I thought you… Passed on? Found peace? Settled. I thought you [settled](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F17341025&t=YTMxZWU3N2Y5NDVhZGEyYjhiZTM2Y2Y1NDIxNTg0OGU1YTM0MzM0OSxBTXltbGJwcQ%3D%3D&b=t%3ArPXL4BvSHzDwZw9PSQdOAw&p=https%3A%2F%2Frandomwriteronline.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F189798773090%2Funcle-joey-yes-darling-did-you-know&m=1). I thought I finally stopped forcing you here and you were done and settled. I thought I finally did something good for you and you were done and settled. … You’re a smart one. You know where this is going. But please, God almighty _please_ , don’t hurt him. Whatever you want, I’m here. I’d guess it’s revenge, or something similar. Can’t blame you if it is. But don’t hurt Charlie. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for me. This horrible mess of a body is right here. Ready to be mangled, sliced, diced, minced, whatever. But keep Charlie out of this. Whatever it is I screwed up, it’s between just you and me. Keep Charlie out of this. Please. I’m begging you.”

There isn’t someone out there to answer.

Cold hands on his shoulders.

It’s not about you.

Joey turns as fast as lightning.

Cold hands shift on his collarbone. A pair of eyes burn holes in his nape.

A patch of orange lilies and blue peonies.

I liked them very much.

Charlie’s wide grey eyes stare at the wall as he listens to his uncle sleeping.


	8. Chapter 8

Charlie likes Thaische.

He likes how Thaische’s pretty eyes have their tails pointing upwards.

He likes how Thaische’s hair is unruly.

He likes the mole above Thaische’s right eyebrow, close to his nose.

He likes Thaische’s nose too, even though it looks like it was broken once.

He likes how tiny and dark and riddled with freckles Thaische’s hands are, and how they curl around his own paler ones.

He likes how Thaische doesn’t like to look at people in the eyes and always turns his head away or points his stare down.

He likes the way Thaische dresses - with curdoroy pants and ponchos when it’s cold, and with skirts and dresses when it’s warm.

He likes the way Thaische fights, hitting bigger older kids who call them names and shove them around with his cane until they are curled in a ball on the ground, covering their heads with their arms because it hurts.

He likes when Thaische sits with him, and draws with him, and when his arms stiffen when he’s happy, and when he puts his head near his, and when he remembers to say ‘thank you’, and when he hums instead of speaking, and when he shows him how to recognize skulls.

He likes when Thaische sits on his lap and he wheels the two of them around.

There’s just a lot of things to like about Thaische, Charlie thinks.

He holds his friend’s hand a little tighter. Thaische looks pretty when his eyes are closed and his head leans on Charlie’s shoulder, too.

Must be from his dad.

Thaische’s dad is very pretty.

His mom too, but in a different way. Charlie can’t really explain it.

The tree’s shade is nice.

It’s starting to get warmer.

Charlie plays with the fabric of Thaische’s dress. Lilac is a nice color.

Thaische hums.

“You know, I dreamt the Man With The Eyes too.”

“Hm.”

“He gave me some flowers. The ones I dreamt, remember? We were in a cave ‘n’ it was full of flowers and weird animals with skulls instead of their heads. I thought, oh, Thaische would like this.”

Thaische’s arms stiffen; his hands gently hit Charlie’s forearms and his fingers curl around it as if he was trying to make bread. He hums a little louder, to say yes, he would have liked it.

“Maybe next time we can dream together and we can go to the cave together, and you can tell me what animals there are.”

Thaische’s mouth curves just enough to look like a smile.

Charlie feels like his chest hurts, but he doesn’t know why.

“Maybe.”

Thaische has very pretty eyes.

There’s just a lot to like, about Thaische.


	9. Chapter 9

“We shouldn’t have told him.”

It’s late night.

Thaische is standing right in the middle of the living room, facing the couch.

One of Edgar’s legs is caught up in his little fist.

It’s really, really dark.

“He’s just six, I shouldn’t have told him.”

Niamh speaks quietly but not so much. If he moved a little further he could hear even better.

“He’s too young. Children that young shouldn’t know a thing about grief.”

“He knows about death. He’s aware of it.”

Kim’s voice overlaps with the rustling of fabric.

“He shouldn’t.”

“He liked skulls before we got him.”

“But he shouldn’t know grief. He shouldn’t know… He didn’t even know him. I made him grieve someone he doesn’t even know.”

Thaische stares at the couch.

At the air just above it.

“I made him grieve for someone he has never even seen. He doesn’t even know how he looked like. He had nothing to with this, I shouldn’t have told him.”

“We both decided to tell him.”

“I was the one to say we should have.”

“He should have known. He was his brother.”

“He wasn’t even our son.”

“He was. You know he was.”

“He was. Goodness, he was.”

There is the shape of something on that couch. Something that should be there.

“I didn’t… When I said he wasn’t I didn’t… I meant-”

“I know. It’s alright. I know.”

“I loved him.”

“I know.”

“So much.”

“I know.”

Someone that blends in the shadows and lets him sleep there with them when he has nightmares or can’t fall asleep.

“I loved him too.”

She’s crying.

Thaische stares at the couch, at the dark blue void on it. He knows it won’t feel solid under his fingers if he tries to touch it.

It’s so terribly, sadly disappointing.


	10. Chapter 10

“I don’t know what to do.”

Charlie is in bed. He should be asleep.

Dad came over tonight after dinner, even though Charlie is scheduled to stay at Uncle Joey’s tonight and Dad shouldn’t pick him up. He said he wanted to say hi and spend some time with Uncle Joey, who is so nice for always taking care of Charlie when he is too busy. Uncle Joey says it’s nothing.

“I feel… So bad, you understand?”

Dad has been sitting in the living room since. He’s drunk a lot of something and when he talks his voice is a little wobbly. He sounds about to cry.

“And I don’t even know why. I have no idea why.”

Charlie never heard Dad cry.

“I have, no reason. To feel this miserable. None. And here I am.”

“Malcolm, it’s alright.”

Uncle Joey sounds so gentle.

“No it’s not. I don’t have a reason. What, what’s the point of being so miserable, if, if you don’t have a reason? Wh- who gave me the right?”

“Malcolm, it’s alright. I promise you it’s alright.”

“It’s, it’s Sonja, isn’t it. I’m like this because of Sonja, isn’t it.”

The name awakens painful ants in Charlie’s limbs.

“Even when she’s gone, she s- still controls me. I can’t sleep, I can’t close my eyes one single second, you understand, right? Or she’ll, she’ll make something up, and convince the jury I’m the bad one, and take- Charlie- no, no-”

“Hey, hey! Malcolm, Malcolm, look at me. You’re in a safe zone. Charlie is sleeping one door away, and that witch isn’t coming near anytime soon.“

“I don’t love her.”

Uncle Joey says nothing.

“I swear to God, I don’t love her. I did, maybe, and it was a bad choice, and I don’t love her. I don’t.”

There’s silence.

Charlie listens to his own breathing.

“God, I’m- I’m sorry. This has never happened before, I swear. I’ll, I’ll leave.”

“No no no, you’re gonna get in an accident like that, they’ll get your license.”

“I’ll leave, I need, I’ve got to-”

“No, no, you’re staying here. Just tonight. I’ll get you a change.”

Charlie isn’t very good at telling the passage of time; but after an eternity spent looking silently at the ceiling after all the light have been turned off, he decides he can go.

Getting on the wheelchair on his own is hard, terribly hard. Especially if you’re trying to make no noise because it’s really late.

It makes it all the more satisfying when he finally makes it.

Charlie wheels himself slowly, softly, to Uncle Joey’s room.

Uncle Joey sleeps. His arm is curled around Dad in a way that looks almost too sweet for a brother-in-law. Dad hugs him close with his head on Uncle Joey’s chest. His breath sounds relieved, a little happy.

Charlie stares at them.

A thought gets to him – two fathers. No mother.

Uncle Joey, kissing Dad.

It’s a weird thought.

Maybe he shouldn’t have thought it.

Charlie stares at his father and uncle holding so very sweetly and so very quietly in the bed they’re sharing, entranced. He looks at how happy they seem.

He wouldn’t mind two dads.


	11. Chapter 11

On Saturday, nobody does anything.

It’s Uncle Joey’s rule from back when he had an animation studio.

He said that it was a very important thing for a religion that people didn’t do anything on saturdays, and while he didn’t care for the religion much at first a lot of his employees did, so he made it a rule. He even got Dad to join for the afternoon, he who is always busy working. Thaische’s parents came by their own volition. The livingroom feels like a nice quiet party with the adults chatting and Thaische reading with him.

“I want to go to the cemetery.”

Dad and Uncle Joey turn to Thaische alarmed.

Thaische’s parents don’t even blink.

“I wanna go with him too.”

Dad looks at Charlie, then Thaische, then Thaische’s parents.

“I guess I can accompany them.” he tries.

Thaische keeps his eyes on the book.

“No.”

“He needs to get ready for it.” Thaische’s dad explains, “I’ll take them tomorrow.”

“We go alone.”

“Like hell ye are.”

Thaische’s mom doesn’t yell. Her accent is thick anyways.

Thaische points at Charlie: “He’s 16.”

“And yer 13, that ain’t old enough ta go anywhere alone.”

“How old is enough?”

“18. Ye got five more years.”

“Two.”

“Ye can’t just drag Charlie wherever ye wanna go.”

“But I do wanna go wherever Thaische wants to go.”

She looks at Charlie in the eyes. She smiles a little. Her husband puts his thumb in the palm of her hand suddenly, like he’s saying: You can’t go, you’ll get hurt, I’ll go. She wraps her fingers around it gently: I can do this. Are you sure? I am sure. Promise? Promise.

“I thought all of you had work tomorrow.”

Uncle Joey doesn’t work anymore.

From the second they meet up Thaische insists on wheeling Charlie in his uncle’s place, so that the old man can walk with his crutch instead. His bag hits his side softly as he walks and weighs down his poncho. Uncle Joey follows them for as long as he can, but it’s not far; halfway through the epmty patch that divides the corner from the rest of the cemetery he has to go back. Say hi to some old friends. He does stop by a pair of tombstones to pay his respects.

Inside of Thaische’s bag there’s a little bunch of small wooden replicas of skulls of various animals. Charlie pets them one by one as his friend takes them out, smiling. They remind him of a dream he had when he was almost ten.

Thaische wanders through the eight slabs; each little skull corresponds to a tombstone and is placed on it accordingly. The ninth slab doesn’t have a skull. The one to place on it wouldn’t be the kind that Thaische likes. He hugs it loosely: his arms hang around it in a soft manner, his cheek resting on top of the cold surface. He breathes in deeply, sighs out an exhale.

Charlie wheels a little closer. He extends his arm to him: tight in his hand there’s the offering of a chewing gum. Thaische takes it slowly. In his fingers there’s more thankfulness in the short moment their fingers touch than there could ever be in any spoken words.

Thaische sniffs. He carefully takes off the wrapper, puts the gum between his jaws, and chews once.

His eyes are a little glossy, but he isn’t crying.

That’s good. 

Charlie has big troubles reading, actually. The letters being a little blurry wouldn’t be as big problem if only they made sense when lined up.

The biggest problem, he thinks, is that he can’t read the name on the stone.

But he doesn’t want to ask Thaische.


	12. Chapter 12

“You look nice.”

Thaische stops with a hand on the doorknob. His hand pulls at the plisetted red skirt contentedly while holding his cane.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Ice cream.”

“With someone?”

“Charlie.”

Shawn laughs, bouncing the baby in his arms. He is loud and kind. His spouse is quiet and kind. In a sense, Thaische and Marina have very similar parents. Maybe similar older siblings too. Not that they can hope to compare them.

“Go ahead then!”

Two voices rise from the room where he traded skirts with his friend.

“Have fun!”

Sandals are the boots of warm seasons.

Charlie likes cherry, tangerine, blue moon. In that order. He never picks the cup because he likes the idea of eating the container and he learnt how to lick his elbows because that’s where the ice cream drops always end up when the whole thing starts melting.

His lips always turn blue, and Thaische can’t get his eyes off of them.

“I made a flipbook.”

“Hm.”

“Wanna see it?”

Thaische entrusts his own treat in his friend’s hand to watch the short animation. It’s fast, and fluid, and good.

A darkened figure nods its head to the tune of a song it sings. It interrupts itself to turn to the viewer: Hello. The lipsynching could use some more polishing, definitelt, but it’s still so very impressing.

“So?”

“Really good.”

The way Charlie smiles is so bright and beautiful.

“Do you remember the Man With The Eyes?”

Thaische sinks his teeth into the scoop as if he was tearing its flesh. The pieces of chocolate crunch with the vanilla-like cream.

He gives a big piece to the older boy.

“The Other.”

“Yes, the ghost.”

He hums.

“I think my uncle saw him.”

“Ah.”

“Way before we did.”

A bite.

“When I told him about it he got worried the Man wanted to hurt me because of something he did.”

Charlie’s tongue darts across his mouth to catch some stray drops; Thaische breathes in, wondering how exactly those flavours mix.

“It was about five years ago. I kept forgetting to tell you. Sorry.”

He hums.

“He worked for him.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“For who?”

“Your uncle.”

Charlie stops licking his wrist and stares at him.

“Forgot to tell you.”

The ice creams are melting down their arms slowly.

“We’re even, then, I guess.”

Not yet, Thaische thinks. His eyes are still stuck on Charlie’s mouth.

“Want some?”

Cherry, tangerine and blue moon together are almost too sweet. Thaische’s arms stiffen to keep him from melting on what probably is the overly sweet taste of Charlie’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn's spouse and children belong to Control_Room (insane-control-room on tumblr)


	13. Chapter 13

“Hey.”

The person apostrophing Charlie is perched upon the staircase like some kind of predator carved into a stone column. Their hair is raven black, the same color as their clothes, and their eyes have sunk into their face due to their heavy make up. They kind of make him think about Dad.

“Are you his nephew?”

They are pointing to Uncle Joey’s door. The one he’s about to knock on.

Charlie waits a second, a little wary.

He nods.

The person nods as well.

“You look like you could be his son.”

“I’d like him to be my dad. I mean, I love my dad, but I’d like to have him as my dad too.”

They should furrow their eyebrows, probably; instead they raise them and smirk in what seems to be a solidarity that knows it all too well, that tries to joke, you don’t know what you’re asking for, the torture two dads can give you, with their bad jokes and their unconditional suffocating love.

It’s a second, and then they return to their sunken expression.

It makes him feel happy, still.

Somehow.

“And who’re you?”

“I live upstairs.”

“Well, I never saw you before.”

“I don’t like going around.”

“My uncle never told me about you before, either.”

“We never talked.”

“Then how do you know him?”

“I lent him a thing yesterday.”

“Ah. What was it?”

“Something to talk with the spirits.”

“You believe in spirits?”

“They do exist.”

“Well, I’ve never seen one. I’m sure about the ghosts, tho.”

The person doesn’t move. They look like some sort of funny bird, with their hands gripping the handrail and their legs crouched on the stairs.

“So it’s true?”

“What?”

“Is it true that you see a ghost in there?”

“Yup.”

“And what would it look like?”

“Like… A long person. A big, tall, dark blue guy with, hm… Overalls. And a shirt. Very big overalls and very big shirt. He’s got only eyes and a bunch of white dots all over him. They look like the stars in the sky.”

“What kind of eyes?”

“Different eyes. This one’s blue, and the other’s orange.”

The person hums thoughtfully.

“I trust you.” they conclude solemnly.

The boy feels a little confused.

“Thanks.”

“It’s definitely some sort of daemon.”

“It’s not a demon.”

“No, no, _daemon_. It’s a different thing.”

Charlie doesn’t know the difference between demons and daemons nor what a daemon may be, but he trusts the neighbour from upstairs has a vast knowledge of what they are speaking of and doesn’t argue with it.

“You’ll be safe. Daemons are protective spirits.”

“Oh! That’s nice to know.”

“I can imagine.”

“Also, uhm. Well, I guess spirits exist too. Since I’ve seen one.”

“Of course they do. They’re like anybody else, just way different.”

“Can they be people?”

“They are.”

Uncle Joey [is in a good mood](https://randomwriteronline.tumblr.com/post/190198696705/joey-stared-at-the-board-on-the-floor-with-the).

He looks enthusiastic at the poses, comics and flipbooks that Charlie never stop handing him in the hopes of compliments and recognition - something that Uncle Joey was never shy of giving him whenever he looked at his accomplishments despite the arms that don’t enjoy collaborating. It takes long, to learn how to draw well when your limbs move however they like, jerking and fighting with your orders. Charlie learned to use that long time to practice.

Uncle Joey spares no words highlight how far he’s come.

But in Charlie’s mind there’s something else, right now.

“Uncle Joey?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Thaische’s brother… He worked with you, right?”

He expects something that tells him to stop.

Uncle Joey smiles.

“He was.”

He sounds calm. Peaceful.

“Can you… Tell me something about him?”

The older man scratches his stubbled chin. His eyes - the ones that look so much like his nephew’s, as if it was him the one who gave him life and not his sister - are closed in recollection.

He smiles.

“Well,” he starts, “He had a name, of course.”


	14. Chapter 14

Clang, clank-clang.

Four feet make dissonant steps in the echoing silence.

The air is still, cold. The light of the moon is filtered through the windows in straight rays that break the darkness with long blades.

Thaische moves as calmly as if it was day. He takes the longest candle he can find within those from the pile destined to the pleads for blessings and leaves no offering for it.

A sharp sound, a small flame from a lighter: Marina passes it onto the candle.

She looks at her sorroundings.

“You know, it’s actually better in the dark.”

Thaische fetches a candle holder.

“I see it all the time in the day and it’s boring. But like this, it looks a bit haunted.”

“It is.”

“Yeah, sure. By who?”

“Angels.”

“Those are the good guys.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t haunt a place.”

“… Ok, you got a point.”

They speak in hushed voices. If they rose them, they’re sure the roof would probably collapse for the excessive sound.

Marina moves with soft feet, like those of a cat: she merely leaves in the wake of her steps a soft crackle, as if a small flame sparked and died each time she lost contact with the floor. Her friend fears no God nor devil and follows with the haunting thuds of his footwear softened only by the austerity of the night.

They explore every nook and cranny, stop in front of every statue and carving. The urge to play the organ is only barely suppressed.

The emotionless faces painted in the windows stare upon them; they stare back.

They are so young and dark in this ancient marble white church.

Marina’s hair presses softly against the stairs. It’s a cloud of dark soft curls, held together with determination and a bow.

“We should have brought Linda with us.”

“We know the way in.”

“I know, but she’ll still whine that we didn’t invite her for the first viewing.”

Thaische’s bicolored stare looks straight through the stained glass.

The candle’s flame flickers. Its weak orange glow fights and melt with the moon’s pale blue blades as it dances between the two bodies laying as comfortably as possible on the short staircase.

“How is she?”

The girl smiles fondly. Her brown cheeks color themselves darker.

“She’s well. Very well.”

The echo sings.

“I kissed her last week. On the mouth.”

“Was it nice?”

“Really nice. Still get the butterflies thinking about it.”

A gust of wind.

“Her dad’s Charlie dad’s cousin.”

“Really?”

“Hm.”

“Who told you?”

“Him.”

The candle gives out. Smoke trails from its tip as the fire is washed away by the Earth’s breath, a wasted blessing of nothing returned to the silence.

It’s getting a bit too chilly.

Marina knows that her dad will have talked her other, far more Christian dad out of grounding her when she comes back home. Thaische knows he _will_ inevitably be gently grounded, because Kim worries terribly for him and fears, among various other things, legal repercussions.

He also knows Niamh will completely approve of breaking into churches at night out of sheer boredom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina, Linda and their respective dads belong to Control_Room


	15. Chapter 15

Marina got called a dyke because she kissed Linda.

She burnt the guy’s hair.

Why shouldn’t girls have girlfriends? Boys have girlfriends. It makes sense that girls have them too. Like it makes sense that boys can have boyfriends too, since girls can have boyfriends.

What’s the difference between boys and girls, anyways?

Clothes make no difference - pants, skirts, it’s all the same, it’s just what you like to wear. Girls are pretty, boys are pretty. Boys are nice, girls are nice. What’s the point in liking one over the other? What’s the point in caring about that?

Some people change names.

Some people change their whole wardrobe.

Some people change forever and some other change sometimes.

There’s supposed to be something fake in that, something bad and devious; why is it so suspicious, that someone says they’re someone and that’s it? You need to question it if hey look a bit too feminine or masculine. It sounds so stupid. 

It’s weird.

It’s weird that people make a fuss about boys kissing other boys.

It’s weird that people make a fuss about girls kissing other girls.

It’s weird that people make a fuss about someone’s name.

It’s weird that people make a fuss about the length of someone’s hair.

It’s weird that people make a fuss about skirts and pants and corsets and vests.

It’s weird and it makes no sense.

…

Do ghosts dream of kissing rams?

No.

The deep blue figure sits almost bored with a cheek in its sharp hand.

I don’t fall into that hole.

Charlie and Thaische wake up in the middle of the night at the same moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina and Linda belong to Control_Room


	16. Chapter 16

“Do you have to be a boy?”

Niamh’s pale blue gaze rises from her book.

“What?”

“Do you have to be a boy if you don’t want to?”

“Uh. No.”

“Hm.”

Thaische goes back to braiding the fringe of his poncho.

“Ye wanna be a girl?”

“No.”

“Ah. Both?”

“No.”

Niamh frowns a little.

“Well shite, I got nothin’ past that. We’re gonna hav’ t’ ask Kim.”

“Ask what?”

The voice is just loud enough to be heard from the kitchen.

“Thaische doesn’t want t’ be a boy.”

“So she’s a girl?”

“Nope, she said she ain’t.” then a softer tone, “Does it bother you if we say she?”

Thaische shakes his head.

Kim’s head appears in the doorframe. Specks of gold tremble in his eyes.

“Do you feel like both?”

They shrug.

“Do you feel like neither, maybe?”

Shrug again.

Kim scratches his chin, thinking.

“What do you feel like, then?”

“… A bit.”

“A bit of something or just a bit?”

“Just a bit.”

“Then I guess you’re a bit.”

It’s hard to tell what Thaische is feeling at first glance, since she doesn’t emote a lot. But to their parents, it’s clear it makes him happier - especially to Kim, who knows this feeling, the idea of finally understanding one’s self.

“Ye got somethin’ else t’ ask? Or say. Just out of curiousity.”

Thaische waits a couple seconds.

“Boys are nice.”

Both his parents nod.

They’re distracted, it’s his chance.

“How’s sex?”

“Oh, we are _not_ opening that can of worms again!”

Niamh laughs.

“Why not? We’re just curious! How’s sex, Kim?”

Her husband turns his back to the both of them: “I have no wife nor child.”

“Yer the only one who had it, share yer wisdom!” his wife says running after him.

“Absolutely not.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“How’s sex?”

“You heard me, you wonderful yet horrible little creature I adore.”

“How’s sex!”

“Wait - Please tell me this is not the echo thing.”

“How’s sex.”

“It is the echo thing. Goodbye. I’m leaving forever.”

His thin waist is surrounded by big snowy arms, and he’s hoisted up in the air as if it was nothing and gently laid on the couch. Niamh presses an apologetic kiss on his comically disgruntled cheek, although she’s still snickering against the brown velvet of his skin.

“Aye, aye, we’re sorry, cushlamachree.”

“I sure hope you are.”

“Here, let’s read me book together, hm? ‘s ‘The Shadow Over Innsmouth’.”

“Again?”

“What, it’s a good book! I got to the part where the captain decides he’s willing to have sex with the fish.”

“I love you so much, and yet you betray me and fill me with wrath.”

“How’s sex?”

“What, with a fish? That’s just a mistake for all who are involved.”

Kim groans and hides his face in his hands.


	17. Chapter 17

“Are you alright?”

Uncle Joey turns to Charlie. He smiles.

“Of course I am.”

“You look a bit sad.”

There’s an incredulous laughter.

“How can I be sad with such a wonderful nephew visiting me so often?”

Uncle Joey kisses his nephew’s head. He always kisses all of his loved ones, friends or family that they may be, because that’s what his parents taught him is normal to do with people you love. He’s never kissed Dad at any time. And yet he adores whenever Dad is around.

“Uncle Joey…”

“Yes, darling?”

“I wish you were my dad.”

“I… Charlie, I’m flattered, really, but I- You, you lucked out with your dad, he adores you, you do know that-”

“I know! I didn’t mean that, I… I meant…”

It’s Uncle Joey. You can talk to Uncle Joey. He’ll get it. He’ll understand. You can talk to Uncle Joey. You can. Breathe in and don’t worry.

Charlie looks down to his feet.

“I meant… I’d like for you to be my dads. Together.”

Uncle Joey’s stare goes wide and vacant.

He does this when his brain is so astonished or confused by whatever he heard or saw that he needs a second to allow himself to comprehend it all.

“Together?”

“Hm-hm.”

“I… Well, I don’t know how joint custody works, but, I, uh, I guess that would be a lot of paperwork-”

“You could get married.”

Charlie doesn’t understand why his uncle sputters and leans down like his eyes are trying to pop out of his face.

“Married?”

“It’s easier, no? I could be the witness if you don’t want anybody to know. And then we could all move together, so we wouldn’t have to drive back and forth all the time, and you and Dad would have someone else when you come home. And I could call you dad. Or, uncle-dad… Duncle? Duncle Joey. It sounds nice. Isn’t it nice? My dad and my duncle. And I’d be your son. It would be nice, right?”

“I…”

A wobbly, honest, tooth-gapped smile.

“Yes. Yes, darling, it would be lovely.”

“Are you gonna talk about it with Dad?”

“Uhm, actually, I’m - ah - I’m not sure if we should.”

“Why not?”

“Charlie, I can’t marry him.”

“Why?”

“I… You need to be in love with someone to marry them.”

Charlie feels a pang in his chest; he lowers his head, a little shameful.

“I thought… I thought, maybe, if Uncle Joey tells him, they can start falling in love soon, and then they’re gonna want to marry soon, and then it will all be good.”

A pale hand caresses his shoulder, gently. The wobbly smile is kind, and gentle. You can talk to Uncle Joey. He knew it. You can always talk, to Uncle Joey, and he will always understand.

“Well, your plan’s already a third of the way there.” he assures his nephew.

“… So will you ask Dad?”

There’s a long inhale.

“I will ask him about this.”

Charlie looks at him in the eyes.

It’s like looking straight into a deforming looking glass.

The only thing that remains the same is the color.

“Why can’t you?”

It’s really hard, telling when Joey is lying. Not even his friends were able to tell. At the same time, it’s hard to lie to your little boy.

Uncle Joey’s irises dim.

“It’s not illegal. That’s not said anywhere.”

“Neither is it said anywhere that it’s legal.”

He holds his nephew’s hand.

“I adore you. And I adore Malcolm. You two are… You two saved me. After I failed, you showed up while I was waist deep into a horrible moment of my life and you saved me. You’re all the family I have. And I don’t want Malcolm to think… Bad, of me. To think I was… Using him. or decieving him, or trying to hurt you and him. I don’t want the two of you to go away because of it. And even if he was to say yes, if he was to, to feel the same, I… Charlie, I-”

A sigh.

“You’re such a sweet boy. Such a sweet, kind boy. If there’s someone I’d trust with making of a world and deciding how it should work justly, that’s you. But this world isn’t kind, to people like me.”

“Like us.”

Smaller fingers curl around his.

“People like us.”

For a second, Joey hopes it’s a joke.

He smiles warmly, tightening his gentle grip on Charlie’s palm.

“People like us.” he nods.


	18. Chapter 18

“I got a paid internship.”

Thaische’s bed is soft against his back. It smells faintly of lavander, but that might just be Edgar laying on the pillow. There’s a nice soft wind.

“At Cowardly Lion Studios. They looked at the things I did and they were very happy about them.”

“Hm.”

“The two in charge used to work for uncle Joey, but I didn’t tell them he was the one who told me to go. Because, you know, that could have sounded like nepotism. He said they were really good and I could have learned lots. Plus they told me I could work from home sometimes. Because of the wheelchair.”

Charlie is really happy. Thaische’s fingers are caressing and analyzing a strange skull as he stares off into space.

“They said I’m skilled.“

“Hm.”

“What do you wanna do after high school?”

“Dunno.”

“Not even what you wanna do as a job?”

“No.”

“… I heard there’s a university that does majors in mortuary science. I thought, oh, that sounds like something Thaische would like.”

Thaische hums. He leaves the replica on Charlie’s chest and leaves the room.

It takes a bit of straining of the ears, but Charlie follows the humming as he picks the skull up. It’s a song; a pretty recent one. He murmurs the lyrics softly with him, while getting a better look at the weird specimen in his hands.

Oooh, look at all the lonely people…

The two of them are lonely. They’ve been lonely all their lives, in a sense.

Burning blue and orange stare at his hands holding the skull.

“It’s a, hm… Echidna?”

Thaische nods. He sits on the mattress again and places the bowl of apricots between them. He breaks one in half; the other accepts a piece.

“From where?”

“Uh, Australia?”

“Hm. Eats?”

“Bugs, probably.”

“Hm. Species?”

“Like the platypus, right? Half bird, half… Hedgehog?”

“Oviparous mammal.”

“Yes! That guy.”

“Hunt by?”

“Uh… Er, it’s the tiny dog, bear- ?”

“Tazmanian Devil, small carnivore mammal from the island of Tazmania in the south-east of Australia.”

Charlie smiles sheepishly, munching on every apricot handed to him. Thaische splits them without even looking at them and lets the seed inside of them fall into the bowl, one after the other. He smells a bit like lemon, weirdly enough.

Not that he minds.

It’s nice.

He really likes it.

The apricot seeds make a brownish bed at the end of the bowl.

“I’ll think ‘bout it.”

“About the mortuary science?”

“Yes.”

Good.

They eat the fruits in silence until there’s no more.

As she throws away the waste, Thaische keeps sings.

Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave… No one was saved.

Charlie hums in tune.

“I wanna go to the cemetery.”

“When?”

“Today.”

Charlie rolls back onto his chair and begins to help.

An old animal anatomy book that looks like it’s about to fall apart and disintegrate at any given moment, held together by tape and strings and ribbons; seven rough replicas of eight animal skulls and one polished replica of a lizard skull; all goes in the bag.

Thaische plays with their dove skull pendant.

“Where did you get them? The skulls.”

“My brother made them for me.”

“Really?”

“[My dad said so](https://randomwriteronline.tumblr.com/post/190384869815/his-things-he-just-he-just-wanted-to-clean-up).”

Grey eyes fixate on the empty orbits.

“My uncle said… He said your brother hated him. Do you think… Do you think he’d hate me too? Since I’m his nephew?”

It’s the first time that those orange and blue eyes stare straight into his own. They get overwhelmed easily, and fall on the wall.

“It’s really difficult to dislike you. He wouldn’t have managed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna be honest i never thought id write 18 chapters of kids growing up and a really easy to solve mystery but here we are and god do i not intend to stop, what the hell, does anybody outside of like Those 4 People even read this why am i doing this i havent update Il Gioco Dell'Impiccato in like 5 thousand years


	19. Chapter 19

Grandpop died.

Niamh is crying.

It could be much worse, though.

The distance makes the ivy grow slower.

Grandpop was already old when Niamh left. He was the oldest person any of them knew - all the other ones died before they could be as old as him.

Nobody could understand why.

He said he wouldn’t die till he saw his great-grandchildren.

The only time he saw Thaische was when they were ten, for a couple weeks.

It was a chilly summer.

She and Kim stood out like a dark sore thumb in the constant green and paleness of Ireland.

Grandpop might have had a hard time walking and needed a lot of medicine, but he was very lucid. His eyes lit up from his armchair when he saw Thaische. He held his hand between his old spindly fingers.

“You look just like your brother!”

Grandpop had never met Thaische’s brother.

The water in the bathtub has grown cold half an hour ago.

Thaische stares ahead.

There’s no sign of him wanting to leave.

He’s never seen anybody die.

His room is full of memento mori, but he’s never seen anybody die.

He’s heard the skin of the dead is cold, because their blood doesn’t move inside of their veins anymore and is cold as well.

Charlie would hold his hands and say they were always cold, all year round.

Everywhere on Thaische’s body is cold, all year round.

They pull their body out of the water slowly. It feels like it’s not theirs, like they are just the force slowly moving it and not the flesh and bone and muscle stuck within their skin; it feels like something completely alien to them.

Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been, lives in a dream.

The water makes a strange sound when it vanishes in the sinkhole.

The towel feels coarse but soft against the freckles.

Sits at the window,

wearing a face that

she keeps

in a jar

by

the

door.

Thaische has a line, between his clavicles.

It runs along them, meets in the middle, keeps going on his back to form some approximation of a circle around his neck and head.

It’s thin and lighter than the rest of his body.

Like a scar.

His eyes stare at it through the mirror.

He never noticed it before.

Who is it for?

“Thaische?”

She opens the door mechanically, and allows her once broken nose to dive into a familiar chest.

Kim wraps his arms around his child.

Her eyes are wide.

Her father makes her sit on the couch where Niamh is curled up.

Her mother’s face glitters with salt when she faces her.

Ivy stalks spurt from under her eyes.

Her fingers slip through her child’s hair.

She sobs.

Another ivy stalk trails down her cheek.

“You really do look just like him.”

For the first time in his entire life, Thaische feels afraid of the Other.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in case youre wondering, i had fucking forgotten to upload this one

Flowers.

Skulls.

Breeze.

Light.

Odorous purple.

Lavander.

Peonies and lilies.

Lemon?

Moving.

Animals running away as he approaches.

The smell getting stronger.

Stronger.

Stronger.

Stronger.

There’s something on the flowers.

Charlie jerks his head upwards and blinks a dozen times, confused, as if he was just taken out of a washing machine in the middle of a washing program. He turns around a couple of times, trying to understand his surroundings.

Blue and orange burn into his pupils.

“Oh! Oh, it’s you.”

The Man With The Eyes stares.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He is perched upon Charlie’s desk like a vulture, eyes unblinking and feet gently clawing at the storyboards Charlie was working on without scratching them.

Charlie didn’t remember them so sharp.

They look a little like dinosaur paws.

“How are you?”

No answer.

The Man With The Eyes slides off the desk in a single fluid motion as if he was made of slime. His hand lands on the young man’s hair in a friendly pat: his flesh feels soft, inconsistent.

Infinitesimal bits of cinnamon skin fall from his wrists.

They look a lot like…

The Man With The Eyes heads for the door.

“How did you get here, anyways?”

The doorknob twists and unlocks.

“Because you never came here before, I mean. I’ve never seen you here before so I thought you didn’t know my address or how to get here and that’s why I never saw you here. Maybe.”

The Man With The Eyes doesn’t get out. Not immediately at least.

His irises point at Charlie.

“Oh! Oh, I get it.”

His arms have gotten really strong over time with all the wheeling he does.

Outside the house there’s a small corridor and some stairs to the side.

The rest is black.

Black descending into lighter gradients of grey.

Huh.

This didn’t look like a dream at first.

The Man With The Eyes begins descending.

Charlie doesn’t move.

The Man With The Eyes looks back to him.

As if exhorting him.

He points at the wheelchair.

“Stairs.”

The Man With The Eyes nods thoughtfully.

His arms are strangely soft.

Thaische tried to give Charlie a piggyback ride some years earlier, even though he was bigger than the younger kid.

They fell on Thaische’s ankle and he actually needed his cane for some weeks.

But the Man With The Eyes is much bigger, much stronger.

His deep blue arms covered in stars keep Charlie leaning steady and safe against the unreal feeling body as he takes step after step down the staircase that doesn’t look like it wants to end anytime soon, disappearing inside the dark grey and emerging slowly, slowly, slowly.

The cinnamon bits are everywhere on him.

They detach like stickers that have no more glue to hold onto a surface.

“Where are we going?”

There is no answer.

There never was an answer, was there?

Maybe one time.

In a dream.

Someday.

Is it possible to get sleepy in a dream?

Maybe once you fall asleep there you awake in the real world.

Sudden wakings must be like fainting then.

Is reality the dream of a dream?

That sounds complicated.

He could draw something for that.

Eyelids grow heavier.

It’s a recurring theme, he reasons as the steps keep emerging and they keep descending without ever reaching any kind of destination.

Nothing ever happens in his dreams.

A solution is never presented at the end of it.

He only dreams dreams with no consequences or importance.

Maybe it means something.

Who knows.

Charlie’s eyes are closing when the stairs finally finish. He doesn’t even notice. It’s not very important probably.

There’s a line on the dark blue void dotted with stars.

It circles around the neck and head like a thin, loose necklace.

Kinda like something was ripped from it.

Another cinnamon square leaves the sky-like surface.

Oh.

He gets what it looks like now.

“I liked your garden.”

The Man With The Eyes replies with a guttural noise, and Charlie’s eyes close.


	21. Chapter 21

“Can you remember anything?”

Hm.

A horrid, horrid noise of clenching teeth.

“Don’t stress, don’t stress.”

Hmm.

Hmmm.

Ah.

Clenching teeth.

Hmmmm.

“Breathe.”

Ah!

A screech of bone against bone.

Hmmmmm.

Chi…

Chi…

“Only if you can, my dear.”

Chi…

Chi…!

“Don’t force yourself.”

Ma…

Mia ma…

Mia mamma.

Mia mamma era.

Era lì.

Mia.

Mia mamma.

“It’s enough. It’s enough already, my dear.”

Pa…

Papà.

Mio papà.

Papà era.

Anche papà era.

Anche lui era lì.

Mio.

Mio papà.

“Breathe. Don’t strain yourself.”

Erano…

Erano lì.

Lì giù.

Sotto.

Sotto…

Ma…

Pa…

Sono…

Sono lì.

Sono ancora lì.

Sono ancora lì?

“They are, my dear.”

Da soli?

“I’m afraid so.”

Sono…

Son tristi?

The skull gives a subtle nod.

Non è giusto.

Non è giusto.

Perché devono essere tristi?

Non hanno fatto niente.

“They miss you.”

No.

Non è vero.

Non ho niente, non ho avuto niente e non avrò mai niente.

Non avevo niente.

Loro.

Loro non hanno niente a che vedere con me.

Perché devono essere tristi?

Non è vero.

Non è vero.

“They do miss you. They miss you so dearly.”

Non è vero.

“You loved them, did you not, my dear?”

Silence.

A gentle, gargantuan phalanx dries a tear.

Sono molto tristi?

“They are trying not to be.”

Non è giusto.

It’s a long, careful process.

Non è giusto.

Digging deep into the skin.

Non è giusto.

Slowly peeling away.

Non è giusto.

Making sure to cause the least possible damage.

Non è giusto.

And

Off

It

Comes.

Non è giusto.

Somewhere too far away to be heard, a child cries out for air for the first time.


	22. Chapter 22

“Kim talked to the bartender of that place ya like to go to.”

It’s a small place. Not too small.

They make very good cocktails at prices that don’t need you to amputate one of your livers to pay for them.

The lights are soft against the eyes and they play a lot of jazz and swing.

There’s a table in a corner where nobody goes but Thaische. The waiters have learned that when he raises an arm in the air with two fingers outstretched he wants to order.

“He said they had to straight up start refusing people who wanted to buy you a drink ‘cause you’d just push them off the table like a bastard cat and that was decimating their glasses supply.”

There’s a sign on the wall next to where the table is that advises not to sit there if you want to keep your face as it is.

They made it especially for them.

The boy who came to sit there (it’s not clear why - all the murmurs and chatting mix together into a big spherical rock that rolls back and forth under the music, leaving and coming back rhythmically with an unfocused sound that he doesn’t care to distinguish) was likely older than him.

He might have had a nice smile.

It’s probably a really shame for him that he couldn’t read.

Thaische rubs his thumb against the bandages wrapping his palm. He didn’t even notice the shards of glass embedded into it until his father took them out.

How are you doing?, the boy asked with his nice smile; then he started talking about how good the piña colada was there.

Thaische stared into his glass and tried to think of the sounds under the liquid.

His sternum started hurting.

The boy kept talking and talking and talking and talking and his voice was soft but also too close and so close it was too loud and the music was too loud too now drowning his ears with all sorts of vibrations and the ball of murmurs kept rolling closer and closer and louder and louder and the boy inched closer every now and then with his nice smile that kept opening to speak and tell jokes and give compliments and try to do small talk with someone who doesn’t like speaking in the first place and his hand kept coming a little closer then a little closer then a little closer then a little closer until his fingertips were about to touch cinnamon freckled fingers and his voice was so horribly horribly loud and the murmurs were horribly horribly loud and the music was horribly horribly loud and the lights were horribly horribly bright and the boy put his horribly horribly warm palm on their hand.

Too much. 

She slammed her cane into his face, then his face into the table, then his face again against the sign on the wall several times.

He had to be taken away from the boy.

They hit whoever was holding them, kicked and punched. When they were let go of they threw the table to the ground, crashing the glass with their hand, and retired to the corner, nails like claws rasping at the wall, curling into themselves as they clenched their jaw and pulled their hair.

Too much.

Far too much.

He shut his eyes tight until Kim arrived.

Niamh’s hand is still next to her plate.

Kim’s arms are crossed.

Neither of them are angry.

“Why do you want to break things?”

Because.

Thaische stares at the food getting cold.

Because.

Because breaking things is easy, breaking things is quick and hurts and stops when you want it to stop.

Because there’s things she hasn’t done yet and that she wants to do.

Because he’s so short even though he’s an adult now.

Because when they have a meltdown everyone else thinks they’re just throwing a tantrum.

Because the sound of things breaking is just loud enough not to hurt.

Because she doesn’t know what she wants to do in the future near or far.

Because it’s been weeks where all he can dream of is pure black all around him and himself trying to walk away from it, trying to reach somewhere else, anywhere that’s far away enough for him to never see the Ram or those eyes that look so much like his again. Because all the memories they have from those eyes are linked to comfort and gentleness and sadness and a grief they just can’t understand.

Because she wants someone to touch in a way that makes both of them feel weird and good like she’s been told it feels like.

Because he wants to lay in bed and never never never never never never get up, staring sleepless at the ceiling until the end of time like a hibernation spent with eyes wide open.

Because they want to cry but don’t want to, because crying feels so strange and bad and even after all these years there’s still no clear explanation as to why we cry andfor what, for what reasons, there needs to be a reason.

Because she’s never seen someone or something die.

Because his body feels too much like a child and too much like an adult.

Because they are tired and sad and angry and don’t want anything, anything at all aside from breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking.

Because.

“I’m not hungry.”

Two hands wrap around his bandages softly, massaging her wounds with the thumbs. Every movement is a feeling swelling and deflating in their chest.

Thaische gives a quivering huff.

“That’s alright, too.”

Kim kisses his child goodnight that evening.

Thaische walks a hundred, thousands miles; the Ram follows quietly, melted in the scenery.


	23. Chapter 23

Charlie is a contented person.

Has always been, even as a child.

Things are nice. Usually.

When they’re not, they don’t last that long.

Usually.

Of course.

Usually.

The reason he’s crying at his drawing desk as if the canary he’d saved and hoped to see fly again just died in his hands right now is that every reason to cry has slammed onto his back in an attempt to take him by surprise.

They have thouroghly succeeded.

He cries because his wrist hurts a lot, his last drawing was a little off model, the deadline is in a week and half and despite the four hours he’s spent animating he can’t see any progress having been made.

He cries because Dad hasn’t come back home yet, and because he noticed just how lonely his life is and how lonely Dad’s life is and how lonely they both are despite living in the same house.

He cries because his glasses are nowhere to be found and his eyes feel like melting and boiling.

He cries because he is worried about Dad, and because worrying about Dad made him think something seriously bad might have happened to him.

He cries because maybe he isn’t that good at animating.

He cries because now he’s certain Dad was hit by a car and is never coming back, and he has no idea what’s going to happen.

He cries because he can’t stop thinking.

What now?

He can’t live alone.

He can’t get into bed alone or change alone without taking too much time, he can’t drive a car, he can’t take the bus, he can’t take the underground, going around on the streets or in any kind of building is a special kind of hell since everything is either just tall enough for him to be unable to get where he wants to go or littered with stairs that he can’t surpass, he can barely cook, he has trouble perfoming even simple tasks because his stupid arms sometimes don’t move the way he wants them to even though he has spent litterally every year of his life trying to get around this body that doesn’t fully work just to have a normal life.

He needs someone else.

Will they send him off to a relative?

Uncle Joey? His leg would make him an unlikely candidate, maybe his past too.

His grandparents? Too far away, too old, they’ve never taken care of someone who needs this much attention and he doesn’t want to be a liability to someone so frail.

Sonja?

Never. Never never never never never. If they even try to contact that woman he’s going to yell. That’s not his mother. That’s not part of his family. That’s not even part of his world, he doesn’t want to hear a word of or from her. Never.

He’s too young to be an orphan.

He’s too old to cry too, but he’s doing so, isn’t he.

He’s too old to still live with his father.

He’s too old not to be indipendent.

He’s too old to be a virgin.

Everything is so fast.

So terribly fast.

And he can

never

catch

up

to

it.

Charlie cries harder in the silence.

God, he’s so alone.

“Charlie!”

Malcolm’s hands are soft even when he’s tired, even when the bags under his eyes are darker.

As they cup the cheeks of his son they’re soft and untouched by hard labour, and yet they still feel calloused and cut after years of pulling and laying and shaping and making sure everything is alright, and his shoulders look like they’re about to collapse at any minute under he weight of the spineless, stupid, lazy manchild he’s forced to carry constantly.

Charlie mumbles.

He apologizes endlessly between rivers of warm salt.

His father kisses his eyes and replies with mangled words and wǒ ài nǐ, wǒ ài nǐ, wǒ zài nǐ shēnbiān, bùyào kū, wǒ zài nǐ shēnbiān, hǎo ma? Wǒ ài nǐ.

“Wǒ yě ài nǐ.”

“Wǒ zài nǐ shēnbiān.”

“Wǒ ài nǐ, bàba.”

“Wǒ yě ài nǐ, Charlie. Jì zhù zhè yīdiǎn.”

“Wǒ ài nǐ.”

“Wǒ yě ài nǐ. Yǐjīng wǎnle, nǐ chīfànle ma?”

Charlie shakes his head.

What a horrible, stressful, painful way to finally understand how very important breaks can be.


	24. Chapter 24

“Will you walk on forever, my dear?”

Freckled feet don’t answer.

The Ram slips on slowly, slowly, slowly.

…

A boney snout sneaks under an arm.

He smiles behind glasses as it gekkers and wags its tail.

The smell of lavander seems stronger.

…

You are not me.

Thaische doesn’t dare turning.

…

Charlie turns around.

There’s something breaking somewhere.

…

You never will be.

His stare keeps going downward.

…

His eyes search upwards.

A piece of ceiling is… dissolving.

…

The floor?

…

Floating?

…

Grey.

Orange and blue.

I never dreamt you before, she thinks as if she could lie to herself.

“What are you doing?”

Thaische stares.

“Sleeping.”

Charlie tilts his head.

“You dream weird.”

The Ram is gone.

“What do _you_ dream of?”

You, sometimes, Charlie keeps himself from saying out loud.

He holds out his hand for them to grab it.

Their palms are so soft.

The garden is still.

The smell of lavander is terribly, horribly strong, but so far away.

A little, fat fox with a skull for a face wags its tail at them sorrounded by lizards.

“Pizzocchero?”

Pizzocchero barks once. He turns his soft back to them and trots away to disappear between the blooms.

The stems get longer and longer the farther they go, as if the two of them were sinking into the earth; soon enough the petals are so heavy they form a tunnel covering their heads and blocking the light. Lizards slither around their ankles and wrists as they crawl forward towards Pizzocchero’s big red tail.

When the stems start lowering, there’s no flowers on top of them.

The grass is unkept.

You are not my legacy nor my sin.

A cortege of skulls rises to look at them from the quiet of their flowery dens. Pizzocchero joins them, curling on top of a colorful bush of petals.

Their arrangement is so familiar.

The smell of lavander is strong enough to be dazing.

You are a wanted, beloved child.

Thaische remains anchored to the ground.

“What’s wrong?”

He can’t. He can’t move. He can’t move at all. He can’t see it. He can’t. He can’t. It will hurt. He’s not supposed to, he can’t. He couldn’t. He can’t see it. He can’t. He can’t. It will hurt. He’s not supposed to. It hurts. It hurts. He can’t.

A hand.

It is firm, soft.

The pressure holds him down.

And I…

The lavander quivers softly in the breeze.

The body rises and falls rhythmically; the flowers above it shake.

He can’t. He can’t look.

Charlie’s grip tightens a little.

The eyes are not eyes. Not right away.

They are orange lilies and blue peonies.

His body looks…

He breathes.

The petals fall from the star-freckled dark blue face onto the dark soft halo around it, a faint line on his neck and another circling his head (it mirrors one running on cinnamon skin.)

A hand rises from the flowers; its fingers are sharp, the claw undistiguishable from the phalanx.

It cups a thinner cheek missing a mole near the mouth.

I am but the shade

The sky is so brightly blue for a dream.

[of an old, sad memory.](https://randomwriteronline.tumblr.com/post/188067094465/you-never-were-my-replacement-remember-that)


	25. Chapter 25

Are you angry with me?

Thaische’s arms fasten around her knees.

“I don’t know.”

The Other’s legs dangle.

“I never know.”

A hum.

The space below them is liquid, like not completely solid jello.

“Why aren’t you with us?”

A hand on hers. Its claws are soft.

Thaische holds it tight.

There won’t be an answer. There has never been an answer just like there has never been a question to be answered, so why should there suddenly be one now. She’s not sure if she really wanted to hear it, anyways. If she really wanted to know and understand.

Understand.

Understanding feels so hard.

Her hand is held back.

The more she thinks about it, the more she would have truly liked a brother.

They both slide into the pool of nothing underneath them, slowly, until their waists are engulfed in that strange feeling. Their legs are covered by dark blue.

Can you miss someone you’ve never met?

Understanding.

Understanding is so hard.

I love you more than anyone in my life.

The Other’s hair is soft.


	26. Chapter 26

“How’s it going? With the corpse science.”

“Mortuary.”

“Are you having fun?”

Shrug.

“They say university is better than high school. Since you study what you want.”

“Hm. ‘t is.”

A beat of silence.

“Is something wrong?”

Thaische is looking away; their whole head is turned to face the wall, leaving Charlie with nothing but their profile.

“I don’t know.”

“As in you don’t know, you don’t want to tell me, or you can’t tell me?”

They scratch the skin between thumb and index.

“Don’t and can’t.”

“It won’t make me angry.”

“ ‘s not that.”

“Then what?”

Their shoulders shift.

It’s not a shrug, it’s not an angry movement. It’s a shift.

“I don’t know.”

“How to explain the way it feels?”

A nod.

He hums.

“Try telling me.”

“Tell what?”

“What it feels like.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

A puzzling look.

“Sometimes you feel things because you want something. Like once I couldn’t stop crying and I felt terrible, and then it turned out I just wanted to eat.”

Scratch scratch.

“… So if I tell you I’ll stop feeling it.”

“No. But then we can figure out what to do.”

Seeing Thaische’s face right In front of you is an experience.

One Charlie never thought he’d have the chance to behold.

“I want to understand them.”

“What?”

“Emotions. I want to understand them.”

Oh. Well, that might be a little hard for a start.

Charlie doesn’t get to say that.

“I want to yell. I want to kick and spit and swing a bat. I want to break things. Bones. Bones would be great. Breaking bones would be great. I want to bite.”

Their hands clutch their cane.

“I want my brother to be here. I want him to have been here the whole time.”

Thaische holds onto it. Sometimes the fingers go up and down. Open and close. The eyes are still fixed on the other boy’s.

“I want to drink. I want to cry. I don’t like crying. I want to know why people cry. It’s bad and it feels weird and I don’t know why people cry and I need to know it. It bothers me. I want to know why people cry.”

“I thought you didn’t like to look people in the eye.”

“I’m looking at your eyebrows.”

“Ah.”

“I want other people to be normal. I want them to speak quietly and not stare at me and not touch me and not make fun of me when everything is too bad. I want them to shut up and not laugh to themselves about how they think I don’t even know how old I am like I can’t hear them. I want to beat them until they’re laying on the floor too hurt to even breathe without wanting to scream.”

They breathe in.

They’re shivering a little.

“I want my brother back. I want to know him. I want to have known him. A little. Even just a little. I want to have known him.”

Paler hands wrap around the cane slowly.

Touching Thaische directly right now could be a bad idea.

Their stare remains fixed on Charlie’s head.

“I want to have sex.”

“What?”

“I want to have sex.”

“… Really?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, you’re not…”

“I want to have sex.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“Oh, ok, so… Sometimes.”

“Hm.”

“Huh. I don’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom what?”

“She doesn’t either.”

“Oh.”

Another beat of silence.

“That’s a lot, to feel.”

No response.

“Maybe that’s why it’s hard to know.”

Thaische takes deep breaths, each deeper than the other. Faster than the other. Quick. Quicker.

Their eyes look like bicolored flames.

Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker. Quicker.

Cherry.

Tangerine.

Blue moon.

Cherry tangerine blue moon.

Cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon cherry tangerine blue moon.

So sweet.

So terribly, horribly sweet.

Cherry tangerine blue moon.

So frighteningly sweet.

So good.

Too good.

Too good for any words.

“Lemon.”

Charlie’s hair is soft in their hands.

His eyes are wide.

He gasps for air again.

His throat feels dry.

“You taste like lemon.”


	27. Chapter 27

“Honestly, I hoped he’d gotten yer height.”

“And how would he have done that?”

“The gene things.”

“How could he get mine?”

“ ‘cos yer… Oh. Oh, he’s not… Oh, right.”

“You forgot?”

“For a second there I did.”

The house is quieter.

It’s not that there’s less noise. There’s just a missing presence.

One more than usual.

“Are you tired?”

“I thought that’d be you. With all the standin’ n crouchin’ ye do.”

Kim shifts his wife’s hair away from her eyes.

“I can assure you tailoring is not nearly as tiring as bending my whole back into a circle five times in the span of forty seconds.”

Niamh’s chest shudders with a quiet, wheezy laugh.

“But ye do get tired, No Bones.”

“Less.”

“But ye do.”

“I do. But less.”

She cups his cheeks without rising from the couch she lays on similar to a beached mermaid. Judging by her moon-like face, one could guess she’s never gotten to enjoy the light of day nor the calm of sleep.

“I miss seein’ ye dance for the rotoscope.”

Her skin is so pale.

“Ye were bluer than a night sky.”

“Blue is happy?”

A nod.

“And what color is there, right now?”

“Transparent.”

Nothing.

“I used to like it.”

Her hands play with Kim’s dark dreadlocks - of the color of love, she said.

“There used to be so much color, and it’d be like a break.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s most of the time.”

Still a puppet moved by pistons, she thinks, except the pistons now are nothing.

Years of mourning and anger will burn you out, don’t you know.

“Ye got lucky.” she jokes, “Could’a ended up marrying me like I was back then.”

“Oh, I loved you already back then.”

“Ye can’t have.”

“I first fell for you when you broke that protestor’s femur in a fit of rage.”

Her voice echoes gingerly in the house.

“Ye saw a flamin’ purple fury the size of a stool and said, I want that one?”

The way Kim nods with a smile makes her blue eyes twinkle, happy, happy, so happy, and the golden specs in his own irises gleam in response.

The sincerity, the dark brown love.

His hands retreat from her.

Still a bottle tightly shut, he thinks, forcing everything deep inside to hide it.

Disowned and left; that can’t have helped.

But her soft, fat fingers hold his wrist, and her eyelids cloud with a blindingly bright powdery hue, an orange shade.

What’s wrong? the color asks. For a bottle of small, rough, sharp pebbles to rattle restlessly within you.

You can’t keep feelings from someone who feels so strongly.

Kim wraps around her.

His chest is loose - restraining it for more than eight hours would be dangerous.

“It’s hurting so much.”

Niamh holds him tight.

She kisses him slowly, loving, as her worry decreases enough to let her see.

Small, damned, horrible, painful, unmovable rocks spill and drown slowly in a sea that looks like molten chocolate.

“I love you.”

My husband, so deserving of love.

“I love you.”

My wife, so deserving of happiness.

“I love you.”

Neither have wedding rings.

“I love you.”

Her aventurine pendant presses against him.

“I love you.”

His tiger’s eye pin leans cold against her.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Sleeping on the couch is not that uncomfortable with a pair of arms around you.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Suggestive Content  
> it's nothing graphic, but still

It’s hard to be intimidating when you’re short.

It becomes slightly less hard when you have a cane, know how to make someone bleed with it, and several people are present when you give a demonstration of your skill.

Technically speaking, Charlie is taller than Thaische.

If, let’s say, he was to be put on some braces to help him stand upright, maybe with the aid of a pair of crutches to further sustain himself, he would be visibly taller than Thaische by at least a head and a half - which would be roughly 30 centimetres, or about 12 inches.

It’s just not very obvious.

And it doesn’t actually matter.

Not when Charlie is laying face up on his bed.

Thaische looks down on him. He’s sitting on his stomach with all of his light weight, his legs spread so his knees lay on the mattress by the other’s sides, and by his gaze one could imagine he’s planning a murder.

He is not.

“Now.” he repeats.

“In a minute. Can I, can I make you wait just another minute? You’re wonderful.”

No answer.

Thaische holds Charlie’s hand, dragging it up to his face. The fingers are still kind of soft to kiss; animating callouses haven’t taken over them yet. The palm turns to cup his cheek. He leans into it. The other rises from his hip a little unstable to brush strands of hair away from the freckled face.

A digit fights to stick into the orange eye and get away from it simultaneously. A soft apology, no answer. Thinner fingers run across his nose and face as if tracing a map. They move down his neck and then up again, they trace his jaw and clavicles, his shoulders, his ears. They open like a spider web to contain the whole head within their grasp.

He has such a lovely wide smile.

Hasn’t he always had it?

It tastes sweet.

Maybe it has always tasted like this and he never knew.

It feels nice.

This.

Looking and finding and searching and discovering all the things they’ve been seeing for years nearly every day or week or month.

It feels nice.

He pushes the hands down - down to his neck and chest and waist until they’re resting and pressing gently on his hips again. It’s not hard to find his hips (he’s so thin, it’s like they’re trying to poke out of his skin).

He just likes the pressure.

“Now.”

Charlie nods and tries to adjust himself a little.

It’s good.

It’s very.

Very.

Good.

Thaische hums.

It’s also a lot.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

It’s seriously a lot.

He raises his head, his eyes closed.

Up. Down. Slowly. Up. Down. Slowly.

Warm, good, slow, good, heavy, good, move, good, still, good, lot, lot, lot, lot, lot.

Something soft and humid and too much and his hand flies away with a jerk of his entire body that makes him clench hard and hiss.

A mouth moving to say I’m sorry without making any sound.

Noise would make this worse and he knows it.

So kind.

Charlie presses on his thigh.

Good.

Good.

Good.

Pressure is good.

Shoulders relax, tension is relieved, everything goes softer.

More.

Pressure is good.

Pressure cancels out the rest a little.

A breath.

It’s good.

It’s good.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

A little faster.

Sometimes when his eyes flutter open for a couple seconds he can see him mouth I love you on repeat.

His head tries to dive in the pillow, his grey eyes are closed.

His fingers are wrapped around him strong yet gentle.

He’s so pretty.

Up, down, up, down, up down.

So pretty.

Up, down, I love you, up, down, I love you.

Three fingers press on his lips.

A minute later they emerge with a gag.

“Are you ok?”

“That was a mistake.”

It wasn’t a particularly thrilling experience.

Let’s agree to never do that again.

Up, down. Up, down, up, down.

It’s good.

It’s so good.

Soft, warm, gentle, good.

Charlie wraps around him, digs into his skin.

So good, so good, so good.

Up down, up down, up down.

Is it over? It feels so soon. They shake a little more in their grasps, immovable, huffing as they try to hold themselves in place with low purring hums curling tenderly inside their throats. Is it over? Their fingers catch each other and intertwine. A little more. Just a little more. It’s good. It’s very good.

Thaische stands up with his arms still stiffened and his legs wobbling as he leaves the room.

Something happened?

Maybe the kiss.

Did he go outside?

Away?

He doesn’t fear anything, does he.

He could have.

Maybe he’s on the way home.

Hm.

He probably didn’t like it then.

But his arms were stiff.

Maybe he just didn’t like him.

When the younger boy’s body slaps on his still a bit humid from the shower and his arms curl around his neck, Charlie’s first - a little relieved - thought is, oh.

So he didn’t go out in the streets butt naked.

His pale lips press tentatively against his temple. A cinnamon mouth replies by catching them.

“I love you.” he whispers when he’s freed.

Charlie’s arms pin him down against him with a pleasant warmth. He smells of strange, exciting things that he doesn’t recognize - except for a tint of lemon.

Thaische hides his face in the crook of his neck and closes his eyes.

“ ‘ove you too.”

It’s raining a little outside.

It’s stopped for a while when Thaische leaves from the window.

Charlie holds onto his fingers for as long as possible before letting go.


	29. Chapter 29

“Did he tell you?”

“Hm?”

“Did he tell you?”

“Who are we talking about?”

“You know…”

“I don’t.”

A stiffled giggle.

“Oh, you mean…! Oh, he didn’t tell me anything.”

“I think he’s seeing someone.”

Joey nearly spits his food on his plate with wide eyes.

Malcolm’s own green ones are thin from the width of his smile.

“He is?”

“I think so.”

“So that’s why you keep asking to come over for dinner!”

The lawyer laughs.

“I ask to come over because I like spending time with you.”

“And because he needs the house free.”

“That’s the second reason.”

“You sure it’s not the first?”

“Of course it isn’t!”

The lawyer laughs a little more as his ex brother-in-law squints his big grey eyes, still skeptical and more inclined to deny the truth than to welcome it. He has to push his plate aside before he falls in the temptation of feeding himself - as that would end up with him choking rather pathetically on his own mirth and possibly lead him to a hospital bed.

He calms down with a couple of deep breaths as Joey holds his head in his hands with a bewildered smile.

“God, our boy.”

“Our little boy.”

“Our little boy, all grown up, havin’ dates.”

“Makes you feel old?”

“It’s just- ! And now he’s… I’m so proud of him, you know?”

“I know.”

Grey eyes dart to rosier hands.

There’s this peculiar thing that Malcolm does, despite having learned through years in the courtroom how to never show any stress; that is, to imperceptively run his right thumb back and forth across the soft skin that divides the left thumb from its index finger.

“So who’s the lucky one?”

Something’s wrong, isn’t it.

A smile. A small smile. One that drops a little, very quickly.

“He hasn’t told me,”

His stare is vacant on his plate.

He inhales deeply.

His chest rises slowly, slowly, slowly, more and more, more and more, more and more, like a balloon being carelessly pumped with more helium that it could possibly handle, its thin plastic stretching as it approaches the explosion…

“I think it might be a boy.”

A beat of silence.

There

Another.

There.

Another. 

“Why’s that?”

Malcolm bites his lip.

“He didn’t tell me.”

Green cat-like eyes shift to the table.

As if the sight of food made them too nauseous.

“Who it is he’s seeing, he didn’t tell me.”

“So you…”

“Yes.”

“… Could be a light thing. Like a… Hm. Service?”

“It’s not about sex. As far as I know he isn’t interested.”

“He could just be embarassed.”

“No. No, Charlie talks to me. He tells me everything.”

Not everything.

“If it was… If it was a girl, he would have told me. He wouldn’t… He just says that he’s having company, and that’s it. He would tell me who it was, if it was a girl. I’d have met her already if it was a girl.”

A vague shrug.

“He might want his own space.”

“I’m not intruding. I assure you I don’t question him on things he doesn’t want to talk about, he has all the space he wants. If he wants me to know something he tells me. He always tells me.”

Not always.

Neither feel very hungry anymore.

“Would it be bad?”

It’s as though a pin, like those used to stick insects in lovely glass frames, is lodging into his neck as the words leave his mouth.

It’s what matters the most.

It’s the only way to know.

“Of course it would.”

He’s torturing his hands now.

“He’d got everything to think about already. What with the half paralised body, Sonja, the dyslexya, the bad eyesight, if he was… God, it’s like he’s running an obstacle course across the entire continent, and they just keep piling mountains on his back as he goes. If he was to be gay, it would be over. It would be the last straw. I can’t… He’s an adult, and I know it, but he’s still my son, and paraplegic. It would be so easy to beat him and leave him to die in a ditch.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Grey eyes are pointed to him.

Joey is dead serious.

“Would it be bad? For you?”

Malcolm feels… Small. Horribly small. He can hear his shoulders retreating in his chest. That gaze makes him anxious. He’s never seen his brother-in-law like this, and it’s so subtly terrifying.

Joey is not yelling, he is not acting; but there’s just something, in his stare.

The lawyer looks at the table.

He’s thinking.

“Would it?”

His head falls in his hands.

“I don’t know.”

He is honest.

“I didn’t… Think, about this. Ever. It’s not… It’s not something you think about. Not something you expect. And now it could be happening and I… I don’t know what to think, or what to do.”

“Would you hate him?”

“No!”

Ah.

“I wouldn’t- I-”

“That’s already good, then.”

The cartoonist starts clearing the table; he disappears in the kitchen before Malcolm can process enough of their conversation to ask for clarifications.

He feels relieved.


End file.
